A Yuletide Melody in Prose, Being a Dissidia Story of Yule
by Draconai
Summary: War always leaves scars on its warriors. This Warrior, however, did not receive his scars until long after the war had concluded. Though the wounds upon the world are undone, he alone remembers what hardship they brought. Now that hardship has overtaken him - and something must be done to bring him back to light. Post-World A, inspired by Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol".
1. Fleeting Flash

Draco: I like doing little stories for certain major holidays. Had a Halloween special for Keys and Crosses last year, but when I tried to follow suit with a Christmas special I didn't get enough readers wanting to see it (which made things more difficult, considering I wanted a reader vote for preferred topic since I had no way of choosing for myself). Contrary-wise, I didn't have anything to do for Halloween this year (because my Halloween mood SUCKED), but I've had a little idea for a Christmas Special burning for a while now.

Let's face it. Just because everyone's done it doesn't mean it can't be made fresh.

Dissidia Final Fantasy and its related Fantasies © Square Enix. Storyline inspired by _A Christmas Carol,_ © Charles Dickens. Act of writing inspired by webcomic _Brawl In The Family_, © Matthew Taranto.

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><p><strong>Saber of Thunder's Blazing Fire: Fleeting Flash<strong>

When one is not born of the world in which they find themselves, it can be difficult for them to find their place.

A Warrior knowing no name of his own, he could recall those who had experienced that for themselves; yet in his time among them, he had been one who never felt misplaced, on his own. It was a world of divine struggle, a world that no longer existed - a world that, indeed, may never _have_ existed. So why was it that in this world, from which the battleground of heaven and hell had been made to parallel, he felt out of place?

He had endured a great many struggle, now. He had fought an old rival who did no longer recognize him, now with new meaning behind his clash. He had travelled a world that, upon a map, he knew by heart; yet what he remembered to be broken ruins now stood as proud locales. He had slain inhuman monsters, duelled with humans bearing hearts of monsters, encountered humans bearing hearts of light, and slain dark guardians to the crystals of light themselves. He had traversed time, seen a slain foe rise from the dead, and then seen that raised foe ascend to a form resembling his demonic god.

And he had returned, to find the memories wiped of the world, and that rival in a position that he would never be trusted with.

Thus, it should be little surprise that when the Warrior of Light stepped into the tavern of Elfheim, his blade sheathed between handle and plate of his trusted shield, the barmaid had begun to mix his drink before he had closed the door.

The pauldrons of his armour in cobalt and gold were powdered with fresh snow, as was his hair of shining silver; for it was Christmas Eve, and festivities were in full swing. His horned helmet was held under one arm as he approached the counter, sitting down without a word.

"Brave Warrior," the bartender greeted, drawing her hair over one pointed ear. She had often attempted to make an impression on him, both before and after his journey's end. When first she had done so, he had insisted - with a face he had feared would ignite - his journey too important to linger, and that if he saw the opening arise at the journey's end, he may consider returning. Now, however, the isolation caused by those experiences had hardened his heart; her advances bore no effect on him.

"Megaflare mix," he requested, setting his helmet on the stool beside him. "Tsunami size, rim it with powdered Odin herbs."

A sigh emerged from the elven lady. "You would spend your gil in a tavern, in Elfheim, on the Eve of Yule?" she asked of him. "You are one of Cornelia's most trusted knights; you ought be enjoying the festivities in your castle, with _Princess Sarah_." The name was said with a sweet tone on her lips.

And no sooner had it finished than the Warrior raised his battle plate, his hand closing on the grip of his sword. "Megaflare mix," he repeated, his tone firm this time. "Tsunami size, rim it with powdered Odin herbs."

The bartender winced warily before setting the drink down on the counter before him. He lowered his shield and the blade within, drawing out his coin purse to set the payment next to the glass before picking up the drink and taking a long draught.

"At the least, you ought lend some coin to Pravoka," she insisted. "There's hardly a building there not victim to those recent pirate raids. The season might beckon joy, but they take it too far. Elfheim was able to deter them with our own fleets, but Pravoka is an open port town. Cannon holes are in every residence. Only reason the inn was spared was for their own need of rest."

"Makes it a hell of a thing to get a room if you port late into the night." the Warrior admitted, lowering the glass to wipe his lips of the powdered herbs - he had his glass rimmed for energy, not cleanliness.

"You're not speaking of the pirates," the bartender mused.

The Warrior shook his head. "No, I am not," he confirmed. "Ruined quarters fare better than no quarters at all, yet the residents of the town would rather bleed themselves dry for the inn's rooms than stay in their own."

The elven woman shook her head. "Have you no sympathy for victims of circumstance?" she asked of him. "Those poor, unfortunate souls would freeze in their own homes. Until those buildings are repaired, they've no choice but to find other lodgings. The least you could do is aid them, in coin if not in body."

"The least I can do is naught," the Warrior protested. "I've not requested your counsel, and you oughtn't provide it. My decisions are mine alone." He raised his glass to his lips once again.

"It strikes my heart with pain," the bartender murmured, "knowing a warrior with such strength in his arm has so little in his heart."

A growl sounded in the Warrior's throat as he slammed his half-empty glass to the counter, setting his fiercest glare on the elven woman. "I need not your sympathies," he insisted, "I need a _drink_."

"You're _holding_ a drink," she observed, her voice wary as she tried to calm his anger.

Her attempts were in vain, as he lashed his glass forward, casting the drink into her eyes.

"I need a _stronger_ one," he demanded.

"Oi!" The shout drew the Warrior's gaze across the tavern as he caught sight of an elven bruiser getting to his feet. "Leave the lass alone, 'ardedge. You ain' got a good reason to give, then you 'aven't got to. But don' go lashing out at those who do. There ain' no place around 'ere for 'alf-arsed knights."

The Warrior only rolled his eyes. "I've more knighthood than you, monk," he reprimanded. Then, to the bartender, "Same herbs on the glass. Hellfire tequila, throw in a shot of Judgement B-"

He was interrupted when the bruiser he had just spoken to socked him across the jaw. Being a trained knight, he didn't go much father to the side than he would to draw a coin off the floor - indeed, the bruiser was given more pain, gripping his knuckles in pain as the Warrior pulled himself back upright, rolling his jaw with a rumbling crack.

"You know what? Just give me a bottle of Diamond Dust."

Then he pushed himself off the counter to stand tall, turning to face his opponent. "Have you something to say to my face, monk?" he demanded.

The bruiser glared at him. "Well, 'ell yeah, I-"

"Because you need only touch my shoulder," the Warrior continued, "and you will draw my attention. But to land a blow is to initiate a duel."

He reached behind his shield, drawing his blade from the gap between handle and plate.

"One that you have no hope of winning."

The elven bruiser laughed. "This 'aint a _duel_, 'ardedge," he corrected. "It's a _brawl_. So you can put your sword down."

The Warrior cocked his head slightly, as though to say 'Well, yeah'. "Fair enough."

He drove his blade between the floorboards.

Then he lashed his battle plate forward, striking the bruiser across the jaw with enough force to throw him across the tavern. He slammed into a table covered in drinks, spilling brandy across the floor. With a light smirk, the Warrior drew his sword from the floorboards, sheathing it in his shield before turning back to the bar. Drawing out his coin purse, he set out the gil for his drink and accepted the bottle before proceeding to a comfortable seat near the fireplace - now that his body had begun to process the alcohol, the chill of Christmas Eve was beginning to seep into his skin.

His equipment was set to one side, the drink was raised to his lips, and before long he was out like a candle between wet fingers.

+x+x+x+

Chill air gathering from the corners of in a heated room above the glass in her left hand.

A blaze from the fingertips of her right, just warm enough to melt it and still maintain its chill.

This sight was fascinating the bartender of the empty tavern as his peaceful slumber faded, replaced with a burn in his throat. It took such force to open his eyes that, until it happened, he presumed that someone had blinded him permanently. As he heard a woman's voice say something to the bartender - something about caring for who was left - he tried to call out for aid; his voice sounded like Bahamut's roar. The second attempt sounded more akin to Shinryu's. He closed his eyes, trying to endure the burn in his throat.

A large glass was raised to his lips. He refused to open his mouth, at first, but then the voice sounded at his side.

"Drink, it's water."

A woman's voice, with the hardened patience of a soldier advising a child. His tongue found the strength to taste the liquid; indeed, it was water, and he parted his lips to allow more to flow in. Once his mouth was full, the glass was lowered, that he could swallow without soaking himself; then the glass was set before him, and grip-worn hands caught his, closing his fingers on it before pulling away.

He opened his eyes, but the speaker was not before him.

"Tell me straight," the voice demanded, on the side opposite before. "Until now, did you know what would happen if you had as much straight vodka as you did? You need to adjust to it over time."

The Warrior angled his head to one side. The woman standing there was in garments not of this world - a white, uniform jacket with several buckles across its surface. What appeared to be a belt was tied just below her bust, and the jacket was undone at peak and base, revealing a dark undershirt and a faded brown skirt beneath. A pauldron on her left shoulder bore two green stripes, and that arm was adorned in a long, unattached sleeve; the other bore two bands around her upper arm, and both hands bore fingerless gloves. Clipped to her collar, at the inside edge of her left shoulder blade was a cape of crimson, and dangling from her waist was what appeared to be a sheath for a most curious weapon - a large piece of steel covered in carvings that would be of little use, with the hint of an edge sticking out one side. Her hair was a colour befitting of rose petals, and loose around her face - though he could see her ears were not pointed.

She was holding his bottle of Diamond Dust in one hand, and without hesitation she raised it to her lips and took a large draught from it.

The Warrior turned back to the glass of water in his hands, taking another sip of the cold liquid. "I hadn't thought my tales so widespread as to induce performance," he admitted.

"Excuse me?" The woman turned to face him, revealing eyes like cold steel.

He angled his head to one side. "Of course," he continued, "after a while, the original storyteller will cease to be mentioned, so that he will not be accused of telling the embellished story. I apologize if I disappoint you," he added, turning to face the woman again, "but the Fleeting Flash was a manikin of rose crystal. And though memories of the warrior it imitated did not survive to the final battle, I have reason to doubt her hair was of rose, as well."

A smirk rose on the woman's face. "Right," she mused. "I almost forgot that memories got wiped in that war."

"At least that aspect of the tale was maintained," the Warrior observed, getting to his feet with light haste - and nearly falling over again once he had. He drained the glass of water and set it down on the table. "I thank you for aiding my waking," he said to the woman, "but I am afraid I must depart. The hour has no doubt grown late, and I can only pray that my crew has not assumed I will stay the night in Elfheim."

He turned to leave the tavern, picking up his shield and sword from the floor at the side of the chair.

"To think Cosmos' Warrior of Light would fall so far," the woman mused. "You're hardly the shield that defended the goddess of harmony."

His footfalls did not slow for one who merely recited tales that he himself had told.

"And you're certainly not the blade that slew the god of discord."

His hand drew the door open, the night's icy storm striking him full in the face.

"Let alone the stalwart taking his name."

The Warrior came to a stop with one foot out the door. Slowly, he pulled back, closing the door so as to not lose too much of the tavern's heat (as he recalled, the bartender took residence in the loft above; and regardless of how she annoyed him, he would not condemn her to that chill) before turning back to the woman who so resembled the Fleeting Flash.

"I had not believed the tale so embellished as to claim Garland would call himself Chaos," he admitted. "Indeed, there was a warrior in discord's army who bore that name, but he did never take that of his god."

"I'm not talking about the war," the Flash replied. "I'm talking about the one in Cornelia right now. The stalwart who's personally guarding Princess Sarah, in a position you were promised for yourself - until you slew him, when he called _himself_ god of discord, in place of worshipping him."

The Warrior started to step towards her. "I should have known better than to spread my tale," he reprimanded of himself. "With Garland being the name of Sarah's own trusted knight, I should have predicted that there would be no end to the twisting of my story of war, as it holds a warrior bearing that same name as a servant of Chaos. You seem to be familiar with it - regardless of how twisted it is. So you should understand what grounds I refer to when I say this."

By now he was face to face with the Flash, and he leaned in to the point where she could smell the vodka on his breath as he spat:

"Go to the Edge."

A strange sound - like voltage sparking. His gaze fell to where her hand gripped the figure in her sheath - what he had presumed to be merely designs were in fact separate pieces joined together temporarily. No sooner had he taken notice of this than she pulled the weapon out of its holster, raising to his neck was appeared to be a handheld crossbow without the bow.

And with a sharpened blade where the bolt should have been.

"Listen to me, Warrior," she demanded. "You're drowning in a bottle, and no one is going to take you to Valhalla for passing out drunk at the fireplace on Christmas Eve. You're making us cry. You're making Cosmos cry. And you'll never admit that _she_ would consider you enough that you're making _her_ cry."

The Warrior turned as though to walk away - only to sweep his shield around, with his sword still sheathed between handle and plate, and strike the Flash across the chest. The blade protruded far from the weapon, though he kept it at an angle that prevented it from attacking anything vital; thus the edge lashed a small gash upon her stomach as she fell to the floor of the bar.

"You cannot claim to know Cosmos' will," he insisted, "and you're a fool to claim you know me."

The Flash smirked pulling herself to her feet as she adjusted her grip on her weapon. "Why should I, when you aimed to kill me without due cause?" she mused. "To draw your sword on an ally at the throne of harmony, and slay me where I stood?"

She lashed her weapon to the side - and the Warrior watched with eyes wide as, with the sound of voltage the whole way, the weapon unfolded, shifted on unseen joins, until she held a blade in her hand. Upon seeing the edge, the Warrior drew his sword from his shield, holding it towards the Flash.

"You would duel me?"

"I was near to victor when Cosmos demanded we stay our blades."

A moment's pause.

Then the Flash snapped her fingers, and her body began to _glow_ with silver light. The Warrior lashed forward, but the Flash only threw herself from the floor - and gravity had no hold on her as she leapt past the blade to close her feet on the nearest rafter. Her weapon was slammed briefly to it before she leapt off the rooftop, swinging her edge towards him.

The Warrior threw his shield to intercept, the plate catching her shoulder and throwing her into a spin, though she maintained her earthward momentum; yet when her body struck the floor, a wave of energy lashed out, pure draw from just above where she connected; the Warrior struggled to stand his ground as the Flash was drawn off briefly, landing smoothly on the ground.

Her foot lashed into a kick, but the Warrior only raised his shield to catch it. That seemed, however, to be her intention; her other foot went up to land upon it, and her body did not fall before she propelled herself off with enough force to knock him to the ground. Her hands connected with the wall opposite, and she now lashed her weapon about again so it would take its contracted form once more.

She raised it towards the Warrior, and he had only time to raise his shield, out of reflex, before a deafening _crack_ sounded thrice, each one punctuated by a pointed blow on his shield.

His eyes were wide as he lowered the shield, his gaze on the flash as she stepped from the wall to the floor, her glow fading.

"You're..."

The Flash nodded to confirm that, indeed, she was one of the warriors he could not remember.

The knight's gaze fell to the floor, his mind in a state of shock, as she holstered her weapon and stepped towards him. He made no resistance as she took his sword and shield from him, holding them in her hands; a brief moment of confusion passed before she awkwardly caught both sides of the shield's handle and carefully slipped the blade between grip and plate.

Then she grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him to his feet.

"And I'm not the only one you'll meet tonight."

She headed towards the tavern door, pulling it open; and the Warrior, still dazed, followed suit.

Standing outside the bar was a horse. But it was not a normal horse, of that the Warrior was certain, for its entire body seemed to be of similar build to that of the Flying Fortress that housed the Wind Crystal - metallic and impossibly smooth - and where its face should have been was a mask with four glowing gaps. On second thought, it would be more appropriate to consider its build matching that of Orphan's Cradle, one of the battlefields from his time in the conflict of the gods.

The Flash only tossed the Warrior his shield and sword, causing him to fumble briefly before grasping it in his left hand; then she leapt upon the horse with practiced ease, setting one hand upon what _appeared_ to be its mane.

Any doubts in the Warrior's mind vanished when she held out her other hand to one side; and from it emerged a flare of light, and a shower of _rose petals_, to herald a dual blade arced into an _S_.

"Get on the horse."

The Warrior circled the steed slowly, warily, before attempting to climb up; he did not experience much success, for the steed's saddle - which, like its helm, appeared to be part of it - bore no footholds. With a roll of her eyes, the Flash grabbed his empty hand and pulled him up with much greater ease than her frame should have allowed; then she raised the arced blades before her, grasping the handles so that when she pulled them apart, the edges were mirrored to each other.

"Your ship _did_ head back to Cornelia," she told the Warrior, her mechanical steed turning towards the forest in a direction he knew held a dock. "In all honesty, you ought as well."

"How do you intend to-"

He was cut off by his own yelp as the steed reared, its whinny echoing in the silent night; then it dashed forward, and the Warrior reached his empty hand forward to circle the Flash's waist, to provide leverage - she did not seem to notice, despite riding with only the grip of her legs.

The port of Elfheim was empty as they broke the trees. The Warrior began to panic, for the Flash showed no intention of deterring her steed from charging at a full gallop towards the dock.

"Are you mad?" he demanded.

"Possibly," she admitted.

Then the steed leapt from the edge of the dock - and the Warrior bore pure shock as he continued to gallop across the open air, slowly rising higher into the sky. A look of shock adorned his face as he glanced back to see rose petals trailing from the steed's hooves.

Astonished, he turned back to the Flash.

"Who are you?"

She only glanced back at him with a set gaze.

"Lightning."

+x+x+x+

As they neared the shores of Cornelia, they caught a curious sight upon the water - a wooden sailing ship, of familiar build to the Warrior of Light, flying a Jolly Roger.

"That... is Bikke's ship," the Warrior mused, his gaze fixated on the flag high on the crow's nest.

Lightning glanced briefly at the ship. "Who else did you think responsible for the pirate raids?" she asked of him.

"With the endless cycle of Chaos broken, most of the darkness I had fought on my journey was nowhere to be found when I rounded the world once again," he replied. "He was not in port at Pravoka. I had to pay Princess Sarah with the crystals I carried in order to be trusted with ship and crew, and she demanded I return them when I had completed my trip. The ship I rode to Elfheim is from my employment in the knights of Cornelia."

"That may be," Lightning mused, "but piracy is born when the freedom that comes with a vessel goes to the captain's head. Bikke's lack of presence in Pravoka while you arrived was the working of Lady Luck, and nothing more. Maybe now you'll put a gil into the rebuilding efforts. Pravoka's not the only victim without a fleet to defend them."

The Warrior turned back to her. "How do you know so much about this world?" he asked. "Warriors called to the divine conflict can barely recall their own."

"You'll see when we get to the castle," she promised.

They arrived at Cornelia shortly after this exchange, Lightning's steed coming to a stop at the edge of the snow-dusted town - though the skies were cloudless, the layers of snow were mighty. Lightning quickly leapt off (with the Warrior following, albeit with a landing _in_ the snow, rather than _upon_ it), joining her blades so that they formed an arced Σ; then she held them out to her steed, that he would grip the handle between his teeth. As the Warrior watched, the horse turned and leapt skyward, galloping towards the arced moon and fading in a scatter of rose petals.

He turned to face Lightning as she stepped through the town, heading straight to the castle without any regard for the busy town.

_She knows where my quarters are..._

Nursing a minor saddle sore, he quickly pulled himself into a dash after her.

The castle doors were cracked open, and Lightning quickly pushed them open; closing them firmly after the Warrior had entered. Sarah, the Princess of Cornelia herself, was pacing furtively in the entrance hall, clad in her royal nightgown; upon the closing of the doors, she raised her gaze and caught sight of him, powdered with snow.

"You've made it," she observed, her voice subdued. "Your ship's crew arrived and claimed you were passed out drunk in Elfheim."

"You could say that," Lightning mused. "He's not used to straight Diamond Dust."

Sarah blinked slowly, confused. "My apologies. You are...?"

The Flash glanced at the Warrior. "Lightning," she replied. "I'm the one who brought him back."

"Oh, you are too kind," the Princess insisted. "He keeps with him at all times enough funds for a meal and a room at any inn on this world, and some to spare if misfortune strikes. You needn't have gone out of your way to bring your ship here."

"Ship," Lightning hummed, an amused smirk on her face. "Sure, let's go with that." Then, at Sara's expression of confusion; "Let's just say I've got business of my own in Cornelia, and the kindness to take a warrior home."

Sarah bowed her head. "Thank you, Miss Lightning." Then, to the Warrior, "I suppose I'll retire to my chambers. However, I must ask that you join us for the Yule festivities tomorrow."

"I shall consider it, your Grace," he replied.

With that said, Princess Sarah departed towards her room, Lightning's gaze following her.

"She's a little like Cosmos," the Flash observed, turning to the Warrior.

"That was my impression upon first meeting her, as well," he agreed. "Not only in her appearance, either."

Lightning nodded. "I thought so," she mused, glancing back where she had gone. "She gives off this... aura. It's like... a goddess reborn, or _something_."

With a shrug, she turned and took off down the hallway, towards the knights' quarters - prompting the Warrior to follow suit. Most of the soldiers shared rooms with two or three others, but the Warrior was one of a handful of high-ranking soldiers to have rooms of their own, as well.

Only a few paces down did the two of them encounter Garland himself. He was not as Lightning would remember him, dark and faded steel and a blade that carved whatever earth lay behind him. His armour was of bright silver and shining gold, his cape bright white and bearing patterns of aqua across their sides. At his hip was sheathed a sword similar in form to the Warrior's own, and though his helm was still horned, it was somehow not nearly as malevolent.

"Ah, you've returned," he greeted the Warrior. "You struck Princess Sarah of insomnia, having your crew return without you." Visibly glancing at Lightning, he added, "I'm not certain why you've brought someone home with you, but if the Princess did not stop you than I've no reason to." Then, raising a hand as though to silence him from saying anything; "Whatever challenge you ask of me now, I ask only that it wait until tomorrow's festivities have faded. I wish not to be battered when Yule graces us."

The Warrior reached for his neck - though the glass of water Lightning had given him had alleviated the burning in his throat, it had not rid him of it entirely. "I am certain the challenge that you leave me be for the night is not one that will batter you," he said to Garland. "I've not the tolerance to drink a significant amount of unmixed Diamond Dust without suffering ill effects, and I am certain a night's rest will help my condition, if not restore it entirely. "

Garland nodded. "Very well," he complied. He stepped past Lightning and the Warrior, prompting the Flash to gaze at the knight.

"He looks _weird_, going around like that all the time."

"Very."

The two of them proceeded to the Warrior's chambers, whereupon he locked the door tightly. Lightning glanced around the room briefly - sparsely furnished, with a single window that she quickly threw open - before asking of the Warrior, "Not one for interior design, are you?"

"What do you want of me, Lightning?" the Warrior demanded, drawing off his gauntlets.

"Nine warriors accompanied you to the throne of Chaos," Lightning reminded him, "and then to the hillside south of Cornelia. They did not last long in this world - and neither will I." She stepped towards him. "I, and those who will follow, will not speak with you for long - but if you fail to heed our words, then you sacrifice all chance at redemption."

"Redemption of what?" the Warrior protested, kicking off his sabatons and separating his greaves.

"Look at yourself," Lightning reprimanded. "You stood at the throne of harmony, on your own, before an army of manikins that you knew you had no hope of defeating. Even doubting whether you were worthy of the title, Warrior of Light, you would defend your goddess without hesitation. Now you live in a bottle whenever you don't have duties to perform. You won't even put one gil into the restoration of a town you once defended for no other reason than the fact that _you could_."

The Warrior sighed heavily, reaching for the catch between chestplate and backplate and pulling it to separate the two, leaving him in the jet-black bodysuit he wore beneath (he had found normal garments bore a bothersome tendency to catch in the joins of his armour). "I had good reason," he countered, leaving the plates on the floor where they had fallen. "Defeating the pirates got me the ship that took me to Elfheim,"

"Justifying lies with reason won't get you anywhere," Lightning told him. "Trust me, I know. It's the regret that landed me here with you."

The words hung in the air, long after the voice that carried them had vanished.

She reached for her chest with her left hand - and the Warrior watched with amazement as a shining glow emerged from beneath her garments, just above her breasts. The light slowly gathered, forming a beautiful figure; a rose carved of crystal the same colour as the Fleeting Flash manikins he had once fought, hovering just above her palm.

"Three more will come to you," she warned. "Warriors whom you will not remember in face, but in form, for you have fought the manikins bearing their bodies in the thirteenth cycle of war. Christmas is a time for miracles, but you must be willing to let the miracle happen. Raise your blade against them, and your chance is lost."

The crystal rose set itself into her hand, and she drew her weapon from its sheath, in ranged form once more.

"Expect the first tomorrow," she continued, "when the bell tolls one. Expect the second on the next night, at the same hour. The third upon the next night, when the last stroke of twelve has ceased to vibrate."

She hurled her rose out the window, then raised her armament and fired; the shot struck the crystal form, and the Warrior could only watch as the blow shattered the sacred figure, replacing it with a flare of light of the same colour as the crystal it had come from, taking the form of a mighty flower. From the center of the rose emerged a massive figure - a great knight of machine befitting Orphan's Cradle, bearing a helm with horns of gold, a cape opposite Lightning's own, a shield resembling the saddle of her steed, and the arced dual blade that she had drawn upon taking that seat.

"Look to see me no more," she said finally to the Warrior. "And look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us."

With a snap of her fingers, the glow that rid her of gravity's burden wrapped her again, and she only lashed her weapon earthward, that it would again form a blade, before leaping out the window, soaring towards that great knight. His shield hand reached forth, catching her empty one, and with a turn on his heel the knight hurled her skyward, the Flash vanishing into the sky. The knight lowered his gaze to the Warrior, who could only watch with eyes wide as he pressed the handle of his weapon against the surface of his shield; then he raised it skyward, and bolts of voltage emerged from cloudless skies, striking the earth around him and prompting the Warrior to cover his eyes.

When the thunder had faded, so had the great knight.

The Warrior was left alone in his room, Lightning's words ringing in his ears as he closed the window.

_Three more... on three nights? The Yule festivities will have faded before they have. And... what bell? The hour's bells in Cornelia do not sound at night, to allow the residents to slumber. What do they intend to show me?_

Slowly, he stepped towards his bed, without thought to exchange his under-armour bodysuit for proper night garments; he fell upon the matress without care to lift the sheets, his mind racing; and he allowed sleep to take him in an instant.

The last thought in his mind before he succumbed to slumber was, _I left my helmet in Elfheim_.

* * *

><p>Draco: Began writing on November 17th of 2014. Ended writing on November 18th of 2014.<p>

Do not think I will neglect this story, for it is most likely already written to its end by the time its first stave submitted on December 5th. I will submit the second stave on December 10th. Then the third on December 15th. The fourth on December 20th, and the fifth on the 24th, for no other reason than Yule festivities bearing a tendency to delay my submission of Christmas Specials if I intend to submit it on that day, and I would rather avert that habit this year.

It doubtless says something about me that I went to the trouble of reading the original _A Christmas Carol in Prose, Being a Ghost Story of Christmas_ before writing this. Some lines will seem out of character; these will either be due to my inexperience with a given character, or as a result of direct reference to the original work._  
><em>


	2. Horror Of Antiquity

Draco: Began writing on November 18th of 2014. I actually went out of my way to figure out what XI called Yule for the purposes of writing this particular stave.

There are no 16-bit-esque sprites of Prishe. That is the only reason she's not on the cover.

Dissidia Final Fantasy and its related Fantasies © Square Enix. Storyline inspired by _A Christmas Carol,_ © Charles Dickens.

* * *

><p><strong>Destructive Knuckles Of Brass: Horror Of Antiquity<strong>

The highest hall in Castle Cornelia bears twelve bells, one for each hour on a clock's face. Come each hour's passage, a number of bells will be rung, equal to the clock's reading. Yet they do not ring for all twenty-four hours; the first ringing of the day is the seventh hour, and the last is the twentieth.

Imagine, then, the surprise set upon the Warrior of Light when he was woken by a single bell's ringing, and open his eyes to find his quarters wrapped in darkness still.

His head rose from his pillow as a bolt fired from a crossbow. A sudden pain in his forehead caused him to wince, his hand catching his helm, and the burning in his throat was a painful reminder that he had attempted to drink Diamond Dust straight from the bottle.

A glass of water was held out within his vision.

The drink was already raised to his lips before he remembered that he had locked his door just prior to speaking with Lightning.

He turned his gaze in the direction from which the hand holding the glass had emerged. Standing there was a young woman with tanned skin and hair of lavender, with pointed ears not unlike the residents of Elfheim. Her garments were of deep black, with purple frills upon her sleeves, and upon her helm rested a small crest of gold and silver. Her feet bore simple tan boots, her hands brass knuckles with onyx strikes, and her eyes of ocean blue carried some sort of energy within them - energy that betrayed her slender frame.

No sooner had he taken all this in than the woman smiled, raising a hand aside her head in greeting. "Morning!"

The Warrior turned back to his glass briefly before fixing a glare on her. "The first hour of the day," he protested. "The sun has yet to rise."

"Still morning," she insisted. "Go on, tell me I'm wrong."

Without due protest, the Warrior drained the glass of water before setting it upon the table at his bedside. "Have you a name to go by?"

The woman leaned forward, looking curiously up at him. "Prob'ly," she admitted, "but you're not exactly gonna tell me yours, are you?"

"I've no name to call my own," the Warrior replied. "Though I have borne the title Warrior of Light for as long as I can remember, I have no proper name by which to introduce myself." Glancing at the young woman again, he observed, "Your form is of a manikin I have fought, in the conflict of the gods. The Horror of Antiquity."

"Horror?" the stranger protested. "Well, that's better than 'Abhorrent One'." With a dismissive shake of her head, she set one hand upon her chest. "Anyways, my name's Prishe." Then, poking the Warrior in the shoulder, she added, "And for the record, yeah, you have a name. I gave it to you."

The Warrior snapped his head towards her. "I beg pardon?"

Prishe didn't seem to notice. "Alright, come on, let's go," she insisted, prancing up to the window and throwing it open carelessly. "We got a lot of stuff to get done before your Starlight Festival, and damn it all if I want to be here when the next one is."

In a state of confusion, the Warrior pulled himself from his bed, stepping towards the monk as she pulled herself through the pane. "What are you t_IAMAT AND MARILITH!_"_  
><em>

The shout was not of his own intention - yet he could little help himself, for the sight that appeared there. Five massive spheres of energy floated outside, as though the crystals themselves had been rounded into orbs of light. Four of them shone bright, as had the four crystals he had saved of the Fiends of Chaos, though each of these was white; the fifth, however, was of deep shadow, such as the final crystal he had encountered on his journey.

Slowly, he drew himself out the window, taking care to close it behind him so as to not chill his quarters. With careful footfalls against the snow (in hindsight, he would be astonished he did not feel the chill, despite being wrapped yet in only his under-armour bodysuit), he approached the lights, for Prishe waited in the center of them.

"What am I... seeing?" he asked of the monk, holding his hand out towards one sphere as he passed it, yet daring not to make contact with its surface.

"These five lights?" Prishe prompted. "This is your past. This is what brought you to today. What you've forsaken, in favour of drinks and bar brawls. And now, I'm gonna remind you of what you've forgotten."

The Warrior turned to face her. "I beg pardon?" he asked again.

Prishe pointed one finger towards him. "Look..." She cut herself off, her mouth hanging open, and stood there for a long moment before sweeping her hand to her side again. "Damn it, I_ gave_ you that name and I can't remember it. Hell." She shook her head. "Look, you've given up pretty much everything you used to be, because of one little mishap." She pointed at the dark light to her side. "And I'm gonna give it back, whether you like it or not."

"What?"

In a quick movement, Prishe was standing at one light to the side of the dark one, positioned so it was between her and the Warrior. It took him only a moment to realize her intention, and as he opened his mouth to protest, she slammed a kick into the light, throwing it into the Warrior and prying a shout from his lips as the shine embraced him.

When it faded, his body snapped forward - and his feet came to rest upon the surface of water.

Not _within_ the water, for this was so deep he ought rightfully have sunken in. No, his feet touched down on the surface, as they had so many times. Lifting from the surface of the water were arcs of shimmering light that he knew could carry a stalwart clad in armour, if that stalwart were to see fit to ride upon it.

His fascination at his surroundings faded when he caught sight of the ray of light impaled through his chest - it did not rotate as he did, but it did move when he stepped forward, so as to ensure it was still cross his flesh.

"How curious," he glanced, setting his hand upon his chest where the strike passed his flesh; his hand faded through it ineffectively.

A footfall nearby prompted him to turn, seeing Prishe rising from a three-point landing. "You recognize this place, don't you?" she prompted.

"This is Order's Sanctuary," he confirmed. "The throne of harmony, from which I woke at the final cycle of war, and to which I returned when all ten crystals had been claimed. I will damn myself freely, if I am to forget."

Prishe nodded. "Good." She beckoned towards the center of the battlefield. "And what about them?"

The comment prompted him to turn, seeing the divine woman seated at the throne of harmony, and the armoured knight standing at her side, with shield and sword in accord.

"That is... me!" he exclaimed, his voice faded in volume. "And Cosmos!" He glanced around for cover.

"Cool it," Prishe insisted with no attempt at quiet, grabbing his arm to stop him from dashing. At the Warrior's gaze, she elaborated: "These are but shadows of the things that _have_ been. They have no consciousness of us."

As he watched, a figure emerged from the edge of the battleground, as any would come from the gateway bearing the name Forsaken Kingdom; the figure that had greeted him when he had woken in that tavern at Elfheim.

"Lightning," he murmured.

"This is the twelfth cycle of war," Prishe informed him, as the past Lightning began to speak with the two of them. "The first cycle that had manikins. Everyone was freakin' out, and on their way back from the Crescent Lake. She got here first - not bad, when she was stalling a couple Warriors of Chaos so the others wouldn't get surrounded."

A light snicker emerged from her lips. "Not to mention the fact that she ended up fighting an ally."

The Warrior turned to face her. "What?"

"The dragoon confronted her, after felling the wanderer," Prishe explained. "He provided no explanation, gave her no quarter - and when confronted with Chaos' creeps, he took off with his prior victim in hand. She thought he was a traitor - thought he was an inside job for Chaos. So you can imagine she was pretty pissed..."

The sparking of Lightning's weapon caused him to turn as she raised her saber towards his past self - who already had _his_ blade levelled on _her_.

"...when she realized you were in on it, too."

The world began to fade from around them, Order's Sanctuary plunged in darkness.

"The manikins are just cheap fakes," Prishe admitted, "but they hit like hell. The dragoon learned about the cycle system, shared his info with you, and the two of you started kicking your friends' asses to make sure you'd live for the next one. Light, and the brawler, and the gunner and summoner and sky pirate, weren't buying it. They went on to stop the manikins from building up. The dragoon ended up going with them. Meanwhile, the fakes were already marching on the Sanctuary."

It was then that Order's Sanctuary was revealed once more - though it was hardly as light as it should have been.

"And they found you, standing at Cosmos' throne."

The Warrior could only watch, with eyes wide, as his past self stood before an army of manikins. Though his crystal foes charged at him from all angles, he did not let them pass him, their limp forms falling to the waters once he was certain they were in no condition to continue fighting. At one point, he fell to one knee, a Counterfeit Wraith bracing energy to blast him - and it was then that Cosmos lifted from her throne, the light of harmony gathering around her.

The manikins leapt towards her, and were stopped beyond arm's length by her divine power.

Then a shockwave of holy force ripped across the battlefield, prompting the Warrior to raise an arm before him.

When the light faded, his past self fell to a wounded kneel, alone at Order's Sanctuary.

"You didn't think you deserved to call yourself a Warrior of Light," Prishe continued. "But even so, you chose to stand in protection of your goddess, against foes you knew you had no hope of facing. When she saw this, she took her power - the harmony that balanced out the forces of discord - and smote the enemies that threatened your life. You were harmony's only survivor of the twelfth cycle."

The waters of the Sanctuary vanished, slowly replaced by the snow outside the Warrior's home.

"And when you woke, you didn't remember worth shit."

The Warrior glanced around him. The light that Prishe had launched at him had faded, though the other four had not changed their position, and she stood now again from where she had launched it.

With a swift step to the side, she had another light between them, and promptly kicked it at him as she had the first one, blinding him in the same fashion.

Once he could see again, he took notice of a second shaft of light through his chest. Glancing around, he found himself upon stone, at the edge nearest the pillar of white that marked Order's Sanctuary, a small ruin nearby that in a similar world would be Cornelia. An archway stood between Warrior and ruin, with a crimson glow between its pillars, and a mist of black shadows surrounding its structure.

"The Forsaken Kingdom gateway," he observed.

Prishe landed near him again, snapping her fingers as she pointed her thumb at him. "When a cycle ends," she explained, "the warriors of harmony and discord get refreshed, then scattered - though usually near the place they were right before. You were somewhere around Fools and Hope when you woke up, and when you heard Cosmos' lament, you came straight here."

No sooner had she finished than the Warrior caught sight of his past self, approaching the gateway - and he only stepped through its arch before he vanished from the world.

"She was broken, by the end of the twelfth cycle," Prishe told him. "She hardly had the strength to speak to her warriors in the thirteenth. But you vowed to carry out her will - to find your crystal, and aid your allies in finding theirs. No more standing guard at harmony's throne - you took an active role in this conflict."

The world twisted, time passing in this light; until they stood on a ledge at the Planet's Core. Below them, on the main stone of battle, the Warrior stood with his sword and shield in hand; and opposite him, an angel with no halo, grasping in his left hand a blade so long as to be deemed impractical.

"Sephiroth," the Warrior murmured. "The nightmare."

Prishe nodded. "You went out of your way to fight this guy, just 'cause he wronged Firion. Ten Warriors of Cosmos, each of you with your own journeys to go on, your own crystals to find. But you put yours on hold. Willingly. Without being asked."

The one-winged angel held out a hand, and upon his palm appeared a wild rose.

"For a _flower_."

The Warrior bowed his head. "I did," he admitted. "A friend had begun to lose his way, and I was willing to help him find it once more. Though I was unable to reclaim the stolen bloom, I managed to restore his purpose."

The world twisted again, until he stood high on the Crystal World; and his past self stood below him once more, this time across from a friend. A lion's heart, and a weapon that blended firearm and blade. Their swords raised towards one another, challenging one another's belief's - not insisting that their own is the sole truth, but fearing that the other's would not carry them on their journey.

"You dueled with friends just to make sure they got through hell," Prishe observed, as the two below them exchanged words. "Squall wanted to go it on his own, and you were worried he wasn't gonna make it with an attitude like that. The second he proved you wrong, you left him be."

The two leapt at each other - and the moment their blades connected, the world twisted once more, until they stood in the main hall of the palace Pandaemonium. Their feet rested on a small gap that might have served viewpoint purposes in its own world, before an angled path - the past Warrior stood at the base of the slant, whilst Emperor Palamecia stood at the peak.

A crystal was suspended in the air between them.

And with a swing of his blade, the Warrior called a wave of shining light to shatter it.

"The real cool thing is, you didn't fall for all the crap the others did," Prishe added, as the Emperor began to duel with the Warrior. "False leads, cheap words, fake crystals, half-assed disguises - everyone else got themselves in trouble by something or another. But you didn't take any of it. You saw through the tricks and just kept fighting. That's a hell of a thing to pull off in a place where you get wiped every time your ass gets kicked."

A presence nearby caught the Warrior's attention - a presence his past self hadn't noticed amidst the duel - and he turned to see a familiar armoured figure observing the fight in curiosity.

"And the discord creeps always went out of their way to kick hard enough to wipe us."

The world twisted once more; then they were at the battlefield formed from the old Chaos Shrine, with Garland standing before the ancient blackcrystal throne, and the Warrior's past self standing with his blade drawn.

"What I didn't quite get, though," Prishe mused, "is that you wanted to help _them_ too. You _told_ him, the big guy, you said, 'I'm gonna get the crystals, kick Chaos, and save your sorry ass.' Sure, he kinda tried to cut you in half for it, but come _on_, you got balls to try and play that game."

"You haven't the tightest hold on your tongue, have you?" the Warrior asked, turning to the monk.

"Who, me?" Prishe asked. "Hell nah."

The Chaos Shrine faded, leaving them in the snow again, and Prishe quickly skidded to the side for the next light.

"Is this really necce-?"

She cut him off when her foot threw the light at him, blinding him again.

The third shaft of light that shone in his chest left him in much more recently familiar territory than the prior two; he stood to one side in the throne room of Castle Cornelia. His past self was knelt before the thrones; the smaller one empty, the greater filled by a king speaking with tones of grief and worry.

"This is where you really started to get chivalrous," Prishe mused, landing at his side once again. "Everyone here was a stranger, in a strange land, and you went all sorts of out of your way to help them. Even knowing what that place was - knowing this world didn't have the same rules, and getting your ass kicked here was all-end of your story - you headed out to help a princess you didn't even _know_, let alone serve."

The world twisted as the Warrior's past self rose from his kneel; then he was standing at the ruined Chaos Shrine, in the entranceway of the innermost chamber. Great black bats flapped around the stalwart standing before a great black crystal, his gaze on the princess in gold and chains; and at the armoured footfalls, he turned in curiosity as the past Warrior drew his sword.

"Garland...!"

"Have we met?"

Prishe snickered at the fell knight's comment. "You were shocked outta your ass to see this guy didn't know you," she mused to the Warrior accompanying her. "Still, a fight is a fight - he kidnapped a princess, and you were here to save her. That was all that mattered right now."

At the first clash of blades, the chained princess raised her gaze to see the Warrior dueling with the great stalwart.

"I mean, sure, she kinda looks like Cosmos, but that was hardly your reason for helping her out, now, was it?"

The world twisted again; now they were in the town of Pravoka, presently unruined by cannonfire - though its residents were sparse to be seen, and those who were visible kept greatly to themselves. The Warrior's past self was approaching a figure leaning against the side of a building, who bore a hat that anyone would recognize as that of a pirate captain; and only a few words passed between them before the building's windows were thrown open, and a large number of pirates emerged, each bearing a cutlass sharpened to a fierce edge.

Prishe glanced around the town, looking at each structure analytically. "They busted this place up recently, didn't they?" she said to the Warrior. "Not memory-recently, I mean Starlight-recently. Right?" Here she turned to the Warrior, who had taken a sudden interest in the lack of sabatons on his feet. "And you said you didn't give a damn, didn't you?"

"I did not use those words," the Warrior insisted, his voice heavy with guilt. He felt as though something was caught in his throat.

"But the spirit in 'em stays the same," Prishe reprimanded

The snowfall returned, and she quickly shifted to the next light.

"Wait, wait," he tried to protest, one hand towards her in request to stop, reaching his other to his throat as though he was trying to loose a catch; he didn't need to see Prishe to know she had an eyebrow raised at him, and he lowered his hands with a sigh. "Just do it."

The kick impaled a fourth shaft of light in his chest as they landed upon the bottom floor of the Chaos Shrine - as it had been, two thousand years prior to his arrival in that world. The Warrior's past self rounded a corner, battered and bruised and covered it ashes; but he promptly pushed center doors open.

Revealing a figure in shades of darkness.

"You...!" The past Warrior drew his blade, taking a defensive stance as the demonic figure turned. "I killed you!"

A derisive snicker. "To which death do you refer?"

Prishe chuckled as the Warrior accompanying her averted his gaze from the confrontation. "_This_ Garland remembered you," she mused. "_This_ is Garland fresh off the war. Returned to his world, two thousand years before his death at your hands. Spurred by an endless cycle of death and rebirth. Fall to the Warrior of Light in the Chaos Shrine, rise again in the past as Chaos himself, and then slay the Warrior of Light when his path draws him to the final confrontation. But you knew, didn't you?"

Garland's form began to writhe with darkness, and despite himself the Warrior turned, watching alongside his past self as the Shrine faded to a void of shadow, and the stalwart shifted to a massive demon who could draw a blade from the Edge of Madness in one hand.

But not Chaos.

Only an imitation.

"You knew he would never become the god of discord. And if he couldn't match a foe you had slain, than he was doomed to fall for himself."

The Warrior lowered his gaze as the world faded back to the snowy plain outside his quarters. Slowly, Prishe stepped round to the final light, the sphere of shadow, and the Warrior could only raise his gaze faintly towards her as she placed herself behind it.

Her face was solemn, uncharacteristically so, as she set her foot against the light and propelled it towards him.

The blindness that plagued him now was different than before, for this one wrapped him in shadow, rather than surrounding him in shine, and rather than add a fifth spear of light through his body, this one faded the four already impaled. His past self appeared before him, limping slightly, with a large gash in his shoulder, and then the city of Cornelia around him; silently, the Warrior bearing witness stepped to one side, allowing the shadow of things that had been to proceed to the castle.

He was stopped at the castle gates by a soldier in green. "Halt," he demanded. "What is your business here?"

The past Warrior came to a stop, turning a confused gaze upon the soldier. "I have come to speak with Princess Sarah," he replied slowly. "She is doubtless expecting my return."

"Return?" the soldier prompted. "I've not seen your face around here before."

A studious look adorned the Warrior's face as he looked over that of the soldier. "Are you, by any chance, new to this guard?"

The soldier struck his greave with the butt of his spear. "Don't try to fool me, knight," he reprimanded. "I've been working this shift for ten years. If anyone with such a distinct helm had come to Cornelia, I'd have heard of it, had I not seen it for myself." Looking over the Warrior, and taking notice of the way he limped as he stepped back, he added, "I see you are wounded, and I can allow you to the medical ward for treatment, but your only audience with Princess Sarah will be by her request, not yours."

A sigh passed through clenched teeth as the Warrior locked his gaze upon the soldier. Then; "If you offer me treatment, I'll gladly accept."

The Warrior bearing witness could only watch as his past self was led to the castle's medical ward, his wounds tended in cold waters and gentle bandaging. After a long moment, the soldier who had brought him here approached, his spear at his side.

"I informed Princess Sarah of you," he informed the Warrior, "and she had expressed an interest in seeing you. Are you in any condition to meet with her?"

The past Warrior confirmed that he could; dressing in looser garments that would not damage his bandaging, he reclaimed his sword and shield before following the soldier to the upper floor of Cornelia Castle. At the door to the throne room, the Warrior was reminded to be on his best behaviour before the king and queen; then the door was opened, and the Warrior stepped in.

The thrones were filled by Cornelia's king, and Princess Sarah.

Standing at her side was the armoured stalwart whose transformation the Warrior had only just slain - and on sighting him, the Warrior started.

"Garland...!"

"Have we met?"

Disregarding all manner of propriety, the Warrior stormed forward; his voice could be heard in the Cardian Islands as he roared, "You son of-!"

Whatever it was that he considered Garland to be the son of was unheard as his shield connected with the side of Garland's helm - and the stalwart, unprepared for the blow, was thrown aside, his helmet ringing.

"Warrior!" the King protested. "What reason have you to attack my daughter's personal guard?"

Confusion and rage tore across the Warrior's face as he turned to face the King. "_Beg pardon?_" he demanded. "You mean to tell me that you trust this _demon_ with Sarah's life?"

Garland righted himself at last, his hand upon his helm to silence its song. "I'm not certain what you misunderstand of me," he said to the Warrior, "but I assure you-"

"Silence yourself!" the Warrior roared, turning to face him - and upon that moment, he unleashed a tirade of insults, his speech peppered with the foulest language known to this or any other world, as the King shouted for the castle soldiers to restrain him; the Warrior of Light was dragged from the throne room, the used boots lent to him tearing across the carpet, and his tirade was not ceased until the doors were closed.

The Warrior scoffed, angling his head to one side. "Prishe," he said firmly. "Remove me from this place."

No response.

"Prishe!" he demanded, whirling around. "Return me to my quarters."

There was still no answer to his shout. He was alone in the darkness of the last light.

"Show yourself!" he shouted. "Take me back! Where have you gone?!"

Yet still he remained, in shadows of things that have been. The Warrior seethed, glaring around the throne room of Cornelia's castle.

"Horror!" he roared. "Monk! Abhorrent One! Reveal yourself!"

He turned back towards the door his past self had left through - and it was then that he saw her standing there, her face set, in her hand a spear of crystal, and his voice vanished from him. There was a name on her lips, a name that belonged to no one, and yet it was said to _him_; and he could only watch as Prishe drew the spear back before hurling towards him, the crystal tearing through his body like the four lights of his past, and his head was thrown back; the strength left his body, and he tumbled forward until his knees struck the floor.

He was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and further, of being in his own quarters. His hand found his chest, from which no light nor crystal protruded, and he had barely time to fall into his bed before he sank into a heavy sleep.

* * *

><p>Draco: Ended writing on November 19th of 2014. For some reason, the Spirit of Christmas Past always comes across as a bit of an ass, even when portrayed by someone as kind as Rosalina. As a result, I made no effort to have Prishe sugarcoat this session.<p> 


	3. Delusory Dragoon

Draco: Began writing on November 19th of 2014. Took me a while to think of someone who would fit my plans for this, and then I kept cracking up when I tried to say "Yule" in Liam O'Brien's voice. Quick warning: several names mentioned in this stave will be taken from other Fantasies; this is purely for the sake of having names to use, I cannot guarantee their characterizations will be appropriate, and I ask that you read these passages without preconceived notions concerning the origins of the names in question.

Also, I asked some people I know IRL what they thought would be holiday-appropriate drinks. This may differ from the opinion in your area. On a related note, I now have a bare-text document listing what summon attacks I have used for which alcohols.

The term "equinox" used here is not the one you're going to find if you go looking anywhere that actually understands what it means. I originally used it in a Kingdom Hearts fanfic regarding a haous Keyblade used by Kairi. The fic in question was written shortly after I had finished reading the _Pendragon_ literature series. The first book in said series takes place in a world bearing three suns. 'Equinox' was used therein to refer to the time when the three suns were one in the sky - that is, high noon. By the time I was aware that equinox meant something different entirely, the use of it referring to noon was already ingrained in my mind.

Dissidia Final Fantasy and its related Fantasies © Square Enix. Storyline inspired by _A Christmas Carol,_ © Charles Dickens.

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><p><strong>Lance Soaked in Abel's Blood: Delusory Dragoon<strong>

Waking with a jolt - for his dreamless sleep had ended as suddenly as it had begun - the Warrior of Light knew, without being told, that the lone bell's toll that had greeted him on Prishe's arrival now approached once again. He ought have felt horrified of himself, that he had slumbered for four and twenty hours, and through the Yule festivities; yet without due cause, he felt as though he had yet to miss anything - as though nothing had transpired that he had reason not to miss. A thought dawned in his mind, as that feeling swept over him.

_Have I fallen so low, that I see no reason to grant Princess Sarah's request?_

He had no time to answer his own question, for the bell began to ring.

The Warrior recalled, from the war of the gods, a conversation held in idle rest with the boy bearing the title of Onion Knight. The young warrior had been ever confident in himself, for his mind if not his arm, and had claimed to be prepared for anything from janken to seige; between such opposite extremes, no doubt, there lies a great range of challenges for which he thought himself ready. Though the Warrior knew such a claim was overt - as he had silenced the child's boast by requesting his recipe for onion rings - one could well say he was braced for a broad field of strange appearances, and naught between a glowworm and a gigas would have astonished him very much.

Now, being prepared as he was for almost anything, he was by no means prepared for nothing; and, consequently, when the lone bell's chime faded into the night, and his quarters remained empty save for himself, he was grasped with all the strength of Kraken by an illogical and insatiable fear. In his mind, the Warrior began to count the seconds, marking minutes with his fingers each time he reached sixty. His panic did no kindness to the returning burn in his throat, though he did his best to ignore it - for Lightning had warned him not to strike at those who approached him, and he worried that if he rushed to quell the blaze, he would in his haste bring harm upon the next messenger, and abandon all hope of redemption.

The minutes reached sixty, and to confirm it two bells rung in Cornelia's tower.

Beginning to wonder if perhaps Lightning and Prishe had been specters of a dream, and the bells chiming now were merely the act of a youngling eager for Yule's daybreak, the Warrior decided to do something about his hangover; careful not to rise too quickly, he left his quarters and proceeded to the knights' mess hall. The tables were empty, as were the kitchens, but this was to be expected of the early hour. Recalling how a drink of cold water had aided, though not faded, the burning of Diamond Dust, he stepped towards a fountain carved around a cold spring, all the cooler for the winter's snowfall. Glasses were lined at its side, and he quickly grasped one, drew it through the spring to fill it, and raised it to his lips, letting the chill water alleviate his pain

Once he had drained it, he filled the glass again, with the intention to take it to his bedside in case the burn should return; and it was then that he took notice of a flicker of candlelight from the kitchens, the door of which bore a single glass pane of a window. A curious thought rose in his mind; careful not to spill his glass, the Warrior stepped towards the doorway, wondering if perhaps he ought have searched the castle from the beginning.

The moment his hand touched the doorknob, a voice bearing the force of a dragon bade he enter. He obeyed.

The candle in question was set on the center of a table nearby, upon which prepared meals were meant to wait. A long spear was lain over a counter, across which those meals would be handed to famished soldiers at daybreak, equinox, and nightfall; and standing near one of the ovens was a figure wrapped in faded blue cloth. White boots adorned his feet, a wide belt of leather and white gold circled his waist, and a white cloth circled his wrist to function as bandage; his helm was wrapped in a white hood, though golden blond hair protruded from under it, and a tattered cape of brown leather dangled from his back, draping low to the floor behind him.

"My friend, you're unscathed."

The words and voice were foreign, yet the Warrior felt the combination familiar, in some way. Idly, he approached the counter, setting one hand upon it and astonished to find it cleaner than a mess hall ought have right to be. "Perhaps of battle," he admitted, "but not of drink."

A light chuckle from the hooded man. "Shiva's ice will burn those who indulge too much in her waters," he observed, stepping towards the counter - and his strides bore a scuffle that did not befit his footfalls. His left hand grasped the spear, and he braced it at his side, setting one foot against his knee in unmistakable posture.

The Warrior turned to face him. "I recognize not your garments," he informed, "but your weapon, and the way you compose yourself, are undeniably those of the warrior whose mimicry bore the name Delusory Dragoon."

The hooded man bowed his head. "Kain Highwind," he introduced, carrying neither Prishe's foulmouthed flair nor Lightning's blunt edge. "I am here to show you occurrences within this present time, upon which your own eyes have failed to linger."

"Conduct me where you will," the Warrior prompted. "Though last night took me on a journey which set me in a mood I am not proud of, I feel there must be a reason for it - and for your presence here, as well."

The dragoon set both feet upon the floor, then held out his weapon, its tip angled earthward. "Touch my spear."

The Warrior did as he was told, and held it fast.

In but a moment were the kitchens of the mess hall gone, the candle and its flickering glow. And in that same moment, their surroundings did take another form - the port town of Pravoka, its structures adorned with holes blasted by cannon fire. The bells had only chimed two from midnight before he had departed his quarters; yet the winter sun was high in the sky as he observed the locale.

Warily did the Warrior release Kain's weapon, gazing upon his surroundings. He had visited it several times before, observing its state after Bikke's raids; yet something was different in the air. Men normally adorned the rooftops, attempting to repair the holes with what supplies they had; though their construction attempts lingered, the men were nowhere to be seen. The residents of the port town were all over - be they clearing the walkways of snow, on their way between buildings, or simply partaking in friendly conversation - and while normally their movements were sluggish, and their voices low, now they bore joy in every motion they performed, lifting a kind of music upon Pravoka.

He realized the difference was the attitude - normally of sorrow, it was now filled with joy.

"Incredible," the Warrior murmured. "All these people... filled with joy. With their homes in such condition..."

"Yule, in and of itself, universally brings happiness even to those whom some would say have little reason to be happy," Kain said to him, propping his spear over his shoulder. "It is true in my world, and all the worlds, as it is in yours." As the Warrior turned to face him, be beckoned with his weapon, calling, "Look there."

The Warrior's gaze went to where the shaft aimed, seeing a small gathering of children piling snow. A tight sigh passed through his lips as the younglings formed spheres of the cold powder, to be thrown at those passing by. "I oughtn't be surprised," he murmured.

One of the children, who wore gloves with separate fingers, raised a count of five on one hand. Approaching nearby was a young woman, bundled warmly, and clearly headed somewhere with proper intention. The count reached one; then the snowballs were hurled forward, and the Warrior was caught off-guard when the woman fell to one knee, the projectiles mostly flying over her head. She quickly pulled herself to her feet, and a smile adorned her face as she turned to the children, who had the most enriched looks of horror on their faces as she grasped a handful of snow herself.

"Oh, you want a fight, do you?" The words were challenging, but her voice was filled with joy; she hurled her first attack, and the children were laughing as they scrambled to reload for themselves.

The Warrior was stupefied as he saw the children and the woman exchanging throws, even as the woman continued on the path to her destination. "What in the Edge...?"

"You thought she would take offense to that?" Kain asked him. When the Warrior only nodded, the dragoon chuckled, holding out his spear again; and the Warrior set his hand on it as Pravoka vanished.

They found themselves in Onrac, and the Warrior was astonished to see it as ruined as Pravoka was, if not moreso. Holes borne of cannonfire littered the buildings, and these had no construction to show for any attempt at repair; whereas Pravoka's people were joyful despite their condition, those walking Onrac's streets were fearful and worried. The sun was on the verge of setting, despite it having been high in the sky before he had caught Kain's spear again; as with Pravoka, the inn was the sole undamaged structure, and the Warrior was astonished when he saw the scowling, sea-weathered figure that stormed out through the door.

"Bikke..."

He had tried to form doubts upon seeing the ship, tried to reason that it could have been overtaken; but he had no excuse upon seeing the pirate captain himself standing there.

"This place i' nothin' but wood an' rocks," the captain muttered. "Ain't you lot got anythin' worth anythin' around here?"

The townsfolk exchanged glances, but no one said a word.

Bikke nodded his head faintly. "Alright," he mused. "Listen up, you lot. Stay at the inn i' two thousand gil a night. I'm gonna keep one o' my boys on guard tonight. You try sneakin' in, I'll have yer guts for garters. Go' it?"

No one objected; Bikke quickly stormed out of the town, and the moment he left, the townsfolk started walking towards the doors.

"How..." The Warrior glanced after Bikke, astonished. "How can he do this? The Bikke I remember had honor, even before I set him right. How can he demand something so... _ludicrous_?"

Kain huffed at his side. "I'm more surprised he gets anything out of his demand."

The Warrior blinked before turning to face him. "Beg pardon?"

"I'm quite astonished they're willing to pay that," Kain replied. "Ruined quarters fare better than no quarters at all, yet they'd rather bleed themselves dry for the inn's rooms than stay in their own."

The words were the Warrior's own, and something caught in his throat as he heard the dragoon quote them.

"Are you truly of mind that they take those rooms by choice, rather than by chance?" Kain demanded. "They pay those prices so as to allow themselves to sleep, without fearing death's hand on their throats. The chill would take their lives if they were not to submit to those prices."

He held out his spear again; and solemnly the Warrior took its shaft in hand.

They found themselves in Elfheim, standing in what appeared to be someone's residence. The dining hall, kitchen, and entryway were not separated by doors or walls, a far cry from the Castle of Cornelia that the Warrior was familiar with - though there were several sleeping quarters with their doors closed. Out the window, he could see the sun only just beginning to rise - it would seem Kain had no intention of showing him events in their order of occurence. Three elven women were gathered at the table, sharing stories amongst themselves; the Warrior heard them speak to one another by name - Refia, Faris, Leila - and kept the names in his mind as he watched them discuss.

After a long moment, the door opened, and the Warrior turned to see the bartender he had earlier wronged stepping inside from the winter's cold, in a warm fur coat and with a small bag over her shoulders. The women at the table turned to greet her, and upon sighting her Refia raised a hand in greeting. "Maria!" she called, catching her ears. "I was afraid you wouldn't show."

_Maria_, the Warrior realized. _I frequent her tavern more than some of the people I see in there, and never went to the trouble of learning her name_.

"Sorry I'm a little late," Maria said to her friends, drawing off her coat and hanging it near the door. "The snow is not kind to careless footfalls."

"No matter," Refia assured her. "You brought the drinks, didn't you?"

At the question, Maria set her bag down on the table, drawing out a small variety of bottles; Angel Feathers fine wine and Thunderstorm liqueur. "Just as you asked," she confirmed.

Leila glanced around, peering faintly out the windows. "So where's that knight of yours?" she prompted. "The way you talk about him, I half expected you to liquor him up and drag him here with you."

"Leila!" Faris reprimanded.

Maria only shook her head. "He'd fall unconscious before he became impaired," she insisted. "And in any case, I doubt he'd make for friendly company."

They poured their drinks; though Maria and Refia had only small glasses of wine, Faris and Leila opted for large amounts of Thunderstorm mixed with rather dark coffee. Once they had each a drink in hand, Refia was the first to raise hers in toast.

"To Yule!" she called.

"To winter!" Faris added.

"To harmony!" Leila continued

Maria was the last to raise her glass. "To light!"

They touched their glasses kindly to one another before gladly indulging in their drinks.

Faris was the first to lower hers, pointing a finger at Maria from around her glass. "You know, I've encountered that Warrior of yours more than once while I've been sailing," she prompted. "He's not a kind lout, is he? If I were you, I wouldn't be toasting his light."

"What does it hurt to offer kindness to those who need it?" Maria inquired.

"It's kindness better handed to those who have something to need," Leila replied. "That knight isn't gonna help anyone. You're just putting a toast to waste."

"Words _hurt_, Leila," the Warrior murmured, knowing none of them could hear him.

Refia sighed, lowering her own glass. "They have a point, Maria," she insisted. "You oughtn't keep your hopes up for that Warrior."

Maria set hers on the table. "Forgive me my wishful thinking," was the murmur that passed through her lips.

Faris chuckled lightly. "Don't dwell on it," she assured her. "Just focus on us, on Yule, and enjoy yourself."

The Warrior sighed heavily, turning to face Kain; the hooded man only held out his spear, and the world shifted again at the moment the knight took the shaft.

They were returned, now, to the kitchen of Castle Cornelia's mess hall, and Kain pulled his lance away, propping it over his shoulder. To the Warrior's astonishment, his companion's form was beginning to fade, such as a mirage upon approach.

"That is all the time I have in your world, I'm afraid," he murmured, stepping away - and his footsteps bore that same shuffle that his stride did not sound.

"I understand," the Warrior replied, his gaze on the tattered cape from Kain's back.

The dragoon took notice. "Is something the matter?"

"Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask," the knight asked warily, "but only twice have you walked since I took sight of you, and both bearing rapid, scraping footfalls that do not match the length or fashion of your own. I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, lingering beneath your cloak."

Kain bowed his head. "But of course," he mused. "Your senses were always sharpest upon that battlefield, and I've no reason to believe they dulled any in this one."

In his right hand he grasped the side of his cape; then he took one step to the left, throwing the cloth wide to reveal two children hidden beneath it.

They were a boy and a girl. Their faces were covered in filth, their hands wrought tight by terror, and as they raised gaze towards the Warrior their eyes peered straight through him, for he could tell they had borne witness to things that no child ought. Their brown hair was charred black in a manner that only magic could do, and their garments - white robes, striped green upon the boy, and orange upon the girl - were torn open in various places, that they only just clung together; their stomachs were clenched tight on food that was not there, their lips cracked from seeking water, and their skin tinged blue of cold. The girl had a look of pleading in her eyes, and the boy one of dismissal.

"Are... are they yours?" was all the Warrior could ask as he raised his gaze to Kain's face.

"They are Man's," the dragoon replied, his own gaze locked on the children. "And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that which is written Doom, unless the writing be erased. I stand guard over them, to assure myself of their presence, and see that it does not fade; but that is all I do."

The Warrior was choking on his own horror. "You ought aid them," he forced out, turning his sight upon the children again. "Sustenance to fill their bodies. Garments to preserve their heat. A voice to tell them that all will be alright-!"

Kain fell to one knee, his lance falling flat upon the earth, and the two children tumbled towards him and set their hands upon his weapon.

"I've not asked for your counsel," he said, turning upon the Warrior his own words for the last time, "and you oughtn't provide it."

He then leapt skyward, taking the children with him as he vanished, worldess, into the shadows cast in rafters of the kitchens; and the Warrior fell silent.

+x+x+x+

His feet carried him past his quarters, and to the sparring house at the far end of the castle structure. His hand found a wooden blade, and he approached a nondescript sparring dummy, bracing his weapon in hand.

The Warrior put his own image upon it, as he had been in the last memory Prishe had shown him; and he swung at its heart.

He put his own image upon it, as he had been when Lightning had found him in Elfheim; and he lashed out again at its neck.

He put the image of Captain Bikke upon it, as Kain had displayed him in Onrac; and he attacked with many blows to its limbs.

He put the image of Garland upon it, who at the core of all this he ought feel was responsible; and he ought have been filled with all the blazing fury of Bahamut.

No.

The only flame was that in his throat, and he could not bring himself to swing. The wooden blade fell from his hand; and at the same moment it connected with the floor, the bells high in Castle Cornelia began to ring.

One bell. Two bells. Three.

They ought have stopped there; but as the Warrior listened, their song continued.

Four bells. Five.

On the sixth, an ice without cause gripped him. All air and fluid in his mouth, nose, and throat were turned in an instant to murderous cold that at first began to _burn_; he had not time to become shocked, the chill preventing his breath, and his lungs began to tremor in his chest.

Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

The Warrior fell to his knees, throwing out a hand to support himself, yet the strength in his arm could not support him, and he tumbled to one side. His vision began to blur, the sound of the ringing bells fade from his ears, the sensation of the sparring house vanish beneath his hands.

Eleven.

Had he wronged those sent to right him somehow? He felt certain, in his heart of hearts, that regret would be his last thought.

Then the twelfth bell struck.

The ice melted in his throat, and he found the strength to swallow, forcing out the water from his nostrils. His breath was heavy, and as he listened, the bells ringing began to fade out. As the last stroke of twelve ceased to vibrate, he remembered the warning that Lightning had given him; and lifting his eyes, bore witness to a solemn figure, draped and hooded, arriving like a flame upon the ground before him.

In his ears rang broken laughter.

* * *

><p>Draco: Finished writing on November 21st of 2014. I want to say that Yoshitaka Amano's artwork looks 'messy', and thus lends itself to some of the elements for who took what role in this. But if I'm honest with myself, Amano's artwork looks like <em>artwork<em>, and thus its appearance is justified. Regardless, the stave stands as it does, and you can thank Amano for the characters used.


	4. Phantasmal Girl

Draco: Began writing on November 21st of 2014. Good _Feymarch_, I feel like an ass already. Underlining indicates Translation Punctuation, aka writing in English despite in-story being of another language. Royalty names not mentioned in storyline were intended for use in a past fanfic that has been suspended.

Dissidia Final Fantasy and its related Fantasies © Square Enix. Storyline inspired by _A Christmas Carol,_ © Charles Dickens.

* * *

><p><strong>Flames From the Waters of Chaos: Phantasmal Girl<strong>

The being stood gravely, silently, menacingly before him. As the laughter faded, the Warrior tried to rise from his state upon the ground, but was unable to pass a kneel; for in the very air in which this being existed it seemed to scatter gloom and misery.

It was shrouded in a robe of icy blue, floral patterns adorning its sides, and though he made out a feminine figure from his state upon his knee, that was as much as he could determine. Her eyes were obscured by shadows blacker than their breadth should have allowed, her hair hidden in the hood of her robe, which extended so as to cover her feet and whatever wear they bore. Her hands were visible past the arms of her robe, the skin delicate and beautiful, the nails painted gold with flames in mystic pink; and between her lips painted crimson was the tip of a pipe fashioned for opium, from which smoke lifted that seemed to blur the air around it.

Even without sighting her eyes, the Warrior could feel her gaze looking down upon him, and he struggled to speak.

"You... I do not recognize your form, or your garments, and you bear no weapon I can relate to a manikin that survived beyond your cycle."

Laughter again, this time ringing with amusement at his unknowing; the Warrior felt he would receive no information as to her identity.

"I believe... you are here to show me what has not happened, as of yet, but what is to happen in time yet to come?"

Another peal of laughter, the amusement this time coming from his accuracy, as the robe nodded.

This was the only answer he received, as she raised one arm for him to rise, her body turning partly as though to lead.

By now he was used to beings not of this world. Yet something about this robe struck unbound horror into him; such that when he made to rise, that the figure might lead him, he nearly fell upon himself again. The robe took notice, and paused as he managed to rise to his feet, so as to ensure he would follow her. Yet the Warrior was all the worse for this - for the gaze of eyes that he could not see set a murderous curse of fright upon him, and though so many such gazes he had witnessed were from beneath helms, which bore likenesses to indicate, this was a gaze with no herald whatsoever.

"Phantasm," he forced, "you strike fear into me like no opponent I have seen before. But I understand you have benevolence in your actions, and I hope to take from it what lesson it bears. Will you not speak to me, that I might know your voice?"

The only response he received was laughter, this one bearing deliberate concealment; but a voice in laughter, of itself, has no identity, and the robe only swept a hand upward, beckoning for him to follow.

"Lead me," the Warrior murmured. "I know your time in this world is not to be wasted."

The robe stepped forward; and the Warrior moved to follow.

It was less that they left the sparring hall, and more that the hall seemed to vanish from around them. They arrived in a city that the Warrior recognized as Lufenia; voices in a language not his own echoed around him, yet he understood every word as though it were the streets of Cornelia - that is to say, he caught proper fragments of discussion, isolated words rather than jumbled nonsense; for the robe led him faster than a full sentence could reach his ears from one source. The day was overcast, though the comparative light told him it was only daybreak.

The robe fell still before a trio of Lufenian men, who seemed to be wrought with horror. Seeing the phantasm beckon to them, the Warrior slowly approached their conversation.

"I insist, I've no idea what caused it," one man insisted. "But he strikes as hard as he ever has - stronger still, if I'm not mistaken."

"How long since you encountered him?" asked a second.

"A fortnight, perhaps? He made not to strike me directly, though his blade severed a tree as warning."

The third shook his head. "What a horror," he murmured, "to think he's fallen so low."

They departed, leaving the Warrior in thought. _Fallen? A blade that severs trees? That sounds awfully familiar..._

He glanced at the phantasm for an explanation; the only response was a chuckle at his unknowing, and a finger pointed forward. The Warrior followed the indication to find two men coming across one another amidst the street.

"Morning," greeted one.

"How do you fare?" offered the other.

"Well for now," replied the first. "Can't say for long though."

"Nor can any others," agreed the second. "Plans for today?"  
><span>

"Just a moment's stop at the apothecary. Herbs for waking."

"Always handy to quicken the first hours. Good day to you."

Not another word. That was their meeting, their conversation, and their parting.

Given the robe's penchant of laughter, the Warrior was at first inclined to consider this an act of jest. But time was valuable for those not of this world, and regardless of her disturbing echoes, she would not waste it on amusement; thus, the Warrior took a moment to consider. The doubt of welfare lasting for any period of time seemed to speak of a time at war; indeed, he understood that times of war necessitated waking quickly by any means - herbs, sugar, a foul taste. He turned to the phantasm, who beckoned him forward with a light chuckle.

They approached a woman working in a stall that seemed to be selling beaded bracelets; though less familiar with Lufenian writing than spoken word, he made out terms such as _protection_ and _perseverance_ and reasoned they were charms of good fortune. As he watched, another young woman approached the stall, her coin purse in hand.

"How many for you?" asked the storekeeper.

"One and a dozen," replied the customer. "I've a company about to depart."

"Where to, at this time?" prompted the owner, as she began to bundle the charms. "Not many locales for Lady Luck's hand."

"Not for myself. My beloved is off to Cornelia's region with some allies."

The storekeeper came to a stop at that. "Good heavens," she murmured. "Divines bless them."

She set the bundled charms into a bag, handing it to her customer, who only bowed her head. "I thank you for your service, for one will not oppose him, and the other fell to his hand." At that she departed with great haste, and the shopkeeper sat back on her seat as though sighting ghosts.

Smoke draped across the city, and the Warrior made to defend himself before he realized that this was the phantasm's method of taking him elsewhere - such as Prishe had launched her five lights, and Kain had him grasp his spear. When it cleared, they stood upon water; a perfect likeness of harmony's throne room, with waters stretching for miles, and streams of light circling the battlefield.

"This is... Order's Sanctuary," the Warrior mused, astonished. "Has the war of the gods been resumed?"

The phantasm's laughter again bore amusement at his unknowing, and as he turned to face her she beckoned towards the throne.

But there was no throne. Upon the center of the battlefield, he saw himself, armoured, glowing with golden force; and his opponent was Garland, his armour darkened and his weapon massive once again. A scowl crossed the Warrior's face as he witnessed himself yet to come having been dragged into battle with the fallen knight himself. _I knew that stalwart wasn't to be trusted_.

Garland's weapon lashed towards the Warrior's horned helm; but the knight only stepped to one side, letting it slam into the water's surface. One sabaton landed upon its back edge as the other struck the side of the stalwart's helm; the ringing was enough to stun him as he spun from his perch upon the blade and lashed at Garland's own horns, tearing the helm from his head.

The demon's face revealed, the Warrior levelled his blade between Garland's eyes.

"I don't fall so easily, I'm afraid."

His voice was darkened by war.

Garland snarled, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. "Ease is not the issue," he reprimanded. "I have not fought to win."

A moment's passage; then the Warrior leapt aside, and Garland drew his blade from beneath where the knight had only just been. The roar of waves prompted the stalwart and both Warriors to glance around, seeing great sailing ships pass at either side of the Sanctuary; the vessels circled the building before soldiers swung from the rigging, landing upon the waters with a roll and drawing their blades; and Garland rose to his feet, propping his sword against the ground once more.

The observing Warrior saw these soldiers standing ready, and he knew; _Garland doesn't stand a chance._

Then from one ship emerged a main in officious garments, bearing a hand crossbow loaded and raised at the two combatants.

"Captain Garland, we've arrived."

The observer started. "What?!"

The combatant turned to face him, shield and sword in accord. "Are you of the mind that that will slay me?"

"It's worth a shot," the ranger prompted, "wouldn't you say?"

He aimed the weapon and fired.

Garland took that same moment to swing.

The Warrior beat the mighty blade aside absently with his shield, at the same time swinging his blade skyward to sever the bolt in two. He turned to Garland as the stalwart was still recoiling, and his shield was wrapped in a hellious golden glow. He hurled it forward, the battle plate stunning him, then lashing at his unarmoured helm once, twice thrice; upon the fourth blow it was drawn back, and the Warrior hurled it fiercely to send Garland flying.

Another bolt was fired from the ranger's crossbow; yet without even bothering to recall his shield the Warrior lashed at it, severing it in two once again. The blade was wrapped in crimson as it parted from his hand, and the soldiers began to charge forward when they saw it circle him, leaving afterimages of bloody red in the air to surround him as he lowered it to his feet, then up above his head once again.

The sword's handle found his palm, and he slammed it into the waters as the phantom blades around him were propelled by forces unseen.

No sooner had the first blade connected with the soldier of fastest footing than the world was wrapped in smoke again; and the Warrior observing found himself standing at a set of jet-black iron gates; and the phantasm's laughter surrounded him, amusement born of his displeasure, as the robe beckoned him step through the gateway.

"Tell me, before I do as you bid," the Warrior struggled to say. "These shadows of things yet to come; are they shadows of things that must be, or of things that only might?"

Laughter at his pain.

"Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if preserved in, they must lead." His voice was wrought with horror. "But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me."

Amusement at his desperation.

"Please... tell me..."

The echoes faded into the night, and the robe beckoned again for him to enter.

With a heavy heart, he did so.

It was a graveyard, and blackcrystal forged each grave. At the far end stood a woman in golden dress, before a behemoth of a tomb; feeling this must be what the phantasm wanted him to see, the Warrior rushed forward to approach her. He recognized her, even from behind, at ten paces away, and his footfalls slowed to a stop at her side.

_Princess Carol,_ he realized. _Sarah's sister. What...?_

She held in her hands a bouquet of black roses, and as he watched she set them down before the tombstone; there were silent tears in her eyes as she turned and walked away. The Warrior let his gaze linger on her for a long moment; then he turned to the stone, looking at the names carved into it.

**KING ARYA ALDER CORNELIA**

**QUEEN JAYNE DIANTHA CORNELIA**

**PRINCESS SARAH CYNTHIA CORNELIA**

The sight struck horror into the Warrior's heart; he nearly fell to his knees before the stone, one hand reaching out to set upon Sarah's name and support him as he tried to muster the courage to speak.

"He who allowed memories to consume him, the shadows of Chaos took first."

Where had he heard those words? He had not dreamed them.

"In time past and lost again, it was the stalwart who guarded the Princess herself."

There was a voice to them; a woman's voice he felt he should know.

"When that time was lost, the memories that consumed him were lost as well."

The voice was close - too close to be Carol who had already left the grounds.

"He who returned from Chaos with a heart of light bore memories of that lost time."

It had solid, physical form - it could not be the spectres of the buried dead.

"But when those memories consumed _him_, the Chaos took him instead."

And then he realized.

A blaze of fire seared upon his feet as he was turned, throwing him against the gravestone. The blaze reached the hood of the robe, throwing it back, and the phantasm drew the pipe from her lips, the tip caught between her teeth as her smallest finger pried the mouth from its end; and she caught the hollow tube in her grasp, as she would a blade.

"A false hero."

Raw magic the colour of ocean waves flared from the tip of the pipe that faced the Warrior, spearing through his heart like light and spoken word before it. The jade hair now dangled unbound around eyes shining with magic, and a pain like fire began to consume him as her gaze locked upon his.

"Warrior of Darkness. Pawn to Chaos, when once you slew him. This is your only fate, if you let memories of time no longer continue to plague your chivalry."

Reality began to flicker in his eyes, the world fading as the blade of Ultima continued to tremor in his heart.

"And when at last you are fallen, none will mourn your loss."

Resist as he might, for fear it would mean his end, the Warrior's eyes fell closed.

And then flew open again, to find his quarters dark of early hours, and empty.

* * *

><p>Draco: Finished writing on November 22nd of 2014. When you know plotlines will take forever to come to fruition, you begin to place their elements within other stories if at all possible. Or maybe that's just me.<p>

Terra's disposition within this stave is taken from my Kingdom Hearts fanfic _Keys and Crosses_, and the accompaniment fic _Balance and Ruin_. I will say no more on the subject, in case readers of this holiday story choose to read those fanfics.


	5. Warrior of Light

Draco: Began writing on November 22nd, 2014. Jeez, I know these timestamps say they're a day each, but if I had done this at holiday time I would never have completed it on time.

Dissidia Final Fantasy and its related Fantasies © Square Enix. Storyline inspired by _A Christmas Carol,_ © Charles Dickens.

* * *

><p><strong>Paragon of Harmony's Virtue: Warrior of Light<strong>

The ranger's bolt had not left its crossbow, within the dark Warrior's throneless Sanctuary, in the time it took the light one to rise from his bed. His gaze was wide in horror; yet his quarters were empty, with no trace that they had ever been entered. He reached for his chest, where Terra's Ultima had pierced his heart.

The flesh was unmarred; nothing to show he had ever been struck.

As he lay upon his bed, the bells began to ring high in Castle Cornelia; as he listened, seven rung, and then no more.

His body moved quickly, donning the armour he had cast aside upon Lightning's visitation. The moment he was fully clad, he stepped out of his quarters to find the other soldiers busy. Garland was walking in his direction; upon seeing the Warrior, he raised a hand to catch his attention.

"Good morning to you," he greeted. "Have you recovered?"

"What day is it?" the Warrior asked.

Garland was quiet for a moment. "That drink was unkinder to you than you implied," he mused. "It's Yule's morning."

"Yule's morning..." The realization drew the knight's gaze earthward, and with his voice but a whisper exclaimed, "Good harmony, they did it. A single night, and they showed me every error I had made."

The stalwart seemed confused. "Is something the matter?" he asked.

The Warrior started to say no, all was as it should be; but he stopped himself upon recalling what he had been shown. "Not with me," he replied. "Til when will Yule's festivities last?"

"They ought have worn out by noon," Garland replied. "Why do you ask? Is there somewhere you need to be?"

"Onrac," the Warrior replied. "By dusk."

Garland visibly lowered his gaze. "That may prove problematic," he murmured. "The fleet's crews were in a fit of drinking last night. They're in no condition to take us anywhere."

The Warrior cursed low, trying to think; then he recalled Pravoka, and told Garland, "I believe I can manage it."

They proceeded to the main hall, where a morning feast had begun. The Warrior nearly wept tears of joy and relief when he saw Princess Sarah approach him, unharmed and safe.

"Excuse me, Warrior," she prompted. "Could you come with me for a moment?"

"Gladly," the knight replied. As he made to follow her, he called to Garland, "Save me a seat near the spit-roast Behemoth, would you?"

Though he turned away before Garland could respond, the stalwart's helm obscured his face; even if his gaze had lingered, the Warrior would likely not have seen the expression of pure confusion that Garland sent in his direction - for the friendly manner that he had displayed towards the stalwart as he made the request was unlike any other way they had interacted before.

As Sarah led him, the Warrior asked her; "For what do you need me?"

"Carol and I were sorting the Yuletide gifts," she explained, leading him into a back room. "We often receive presents from other kingdoms - friends that our soldiers have made, or friendly exchange with other royals - but this was the first time I've seen gifts addressed _to_ someone I did not know."

There were four large packages set aside from a colossal pile, and as the Warrior approached them Sarah beckoned to the tags.

"Is this name, by chance... yours?"

+x+x+x+

"Oh, you want a fight, do you?"

It was just past noon as the Warrior stepped into Pravoka, and his ears caught the sound of the snowball clash. He watched for a moment as the volleys were exchanged; then he stepped towards the children, who were lying back in the snow and catching breaths staggered with laughter.

"Excuse me," the Warrior prompted, "but may I ask you boys a few questions?"

The boys looked up to him; and they must have recognized his face, from his prior visits to the town, for they ceased their laughter immediately, standing upright.

"You may ask," said the boy who had counted down for their volley.

"However," another added, "you'll be buried in snow before we give you any answers."

The Warrior chuckled lightly. "Just one, then," he conceded. "Do any of you know which building I need visit to leave some gil for the repairs?"

His response elicited a collective "What?" from the children as they exchanged glances with one another. "You never help with the fixing!" a third boy protested.

"I've not done a lot of actions," the Warrior replied, "and I've learned to regret my apathy. I need to be in Onrac by dusk, or I'd start fixing this place myself. Where can I go to drop a coin?"

"You can stop by the inn," a fourth boy offered. "What else were you gonna ask?"

The Warrior sighed. "Where I might find a ship and crew to Onrac," he admitted. "My own are in no condition to go anywhere."

"My father can help you with that," the second boy told him. "He passes Onrac a lot. But there's no port around there - you can't dock!"

A light snicker from the knight. "I won't need a port."

+x+x+x+

"That ship there, you see?"

The sun was starting to set as the Warrior beckoned to Bikke's ship, moored just outside of Onrac. The pirates needed no port, instead bearing a plank to join their dock and the land; upon seeing the ship, the captain gave the Warrior an incredulous look. "The one with the black flag?"

"Just bring me close enough that I can ride the rigging," the knight insisted. "Then drop anchor somewhere out of reach. I'll light a signal fire when I need you to come back."

The captain shook his head, swinging the ship nearby. "That's a pirate vessel," he protested, as though the knight was mad.

"It's completely unattended," the Warrior insisted, grabbing a rope as he stepped up to the edge of the ship. Then, under his breath; "I think..."

The ship neared Bikke's vessel; waiting for the opportune moment, the Warrior leapt across so he would land upon the deck. There was a man on deck, but he was quickly silenced by an unarmed blow to the jaw; then the Warrior raced down the plank and up to the city of Onrac. The pirate captain was there already, barking his demands to the townsfolk.

"Stay at the inn i' two thousand gil a night. I'm keepin' one o' my boys on guard tonight. You try sneakin' in, I'll have yer guts for garters. Go' it?"

No one objected, and Bikke began to walk towards the south of the town - the people were already on their way towards the inn before the captain caught sight of the Warrior.

"Pirate captain Bikke, of the _Little Silver_."

His voice reached everywhere in the town, and the people came to a stop and turned to face him as Bikke came to a stop. "I don' recall crossin' paths with you, mate," he mused.

The Warrior, with no helm upon his head, only nodded. "Though not with those words, I've met that reaction more times than I care to remember," he admitted.

"Wha's yer name, man?" Bikke demanded, setting one hand on the cutlass at his hip.

"I've not had a name to introduce myself by for a long while," was the reply he received. "I go only by my title, earned on the battlefield of the gods. I am the Warrior of Light."

The people exchanged glances as Bikke set a hand on his cutlass. "So yer that ass from Cornelia, are you?" he prompted. "Don' give half a damn for Pravoka, hi' Garland 'cross the jaw in fron' of the king, and flipped off the barmaid in Elfheim for tryin' to flir' with you."

The Warrior shrugged. "I've done things I'm not proud of," he admitted, "and this is my first step in penance. Remove your people from this town."

"Like hell," Bikke protested.

"Then face me in single combat," the Warrior offered. "And the winner will have his way."

Bikke reached his good arm for his sword, as though contemplating the offer.

Then he smirked, and raised that hand skyward, snapping his fingers - and from the trees surrounding Onrac emerged a dozen pirates with cutlasses drawn.

"Like hell," the captain retaliated.

The Warrior looked over the pirates around him. "Is this your entire crew?" he protested. "Rather risk them, than face me yourself?"

"Pirate," Bikke reminded. Then, to his men; "Keelhaul 'im, boys!"

"Aye aye, captain! We'll make 'is bones go crunch!"

The Warrior rolled his eyes, flexing his fingers idly. "Your loss."

He lashed his hands forward, punching the air once with both hands - which bore gloves of jet-black embedded with golden gems - before raising them skyward, and a surge of light pulsed from the gems in question. Phantom blades appeared before him, whirling once to the left and then once to the right before raising skyward and flashing bright.

_A little something to lend you a hand with those pirates you wanted to deal with. In my world, the gloves of giants will prevent an edge from dulling; I hear that in yours, they make the edge sharper. No idea how this is going to function, but I thought you could use it.  
>Merry Christmas<br>~Lightning_

The fastest-footed pirates now came within swinging range, and the Warrior quickly drew his sword - a blade of white that shone like stars, with curled patterns along one edge, emerging from a hilt of gold crested with a demon's face. Their cutlasses were beat away just moments before he lashed fierce blows across them, throwing them, bloodied but not slain, to the ground.

_Thought you could use something with a little more edge. This thing is sharp as my blades get and sharper than anything I saw in your memories and I can't use it worth a damn. Pain in the ass to get at it, but hey, thought you'd like a present.  
>Happy Starlight Festival!<br>~Prishe_

One pirate, swifter in hand than the rest, managed to strike at the Warrior before he was struck for himself - and disappointment plagued him to discover that the plates adorning the knight would not let his blade pass. The Warrior heard the blade connect, yet felt no greater pain than if a child were to strike him with a stick only in jest; he turned to the pirate, who could only curse before the Warrior's strike sent him to the ground as well.

_These plates are among the strongest defense my world has, and were hidden thusly. I needed leap heavenward until I could scarcely breathe to get so much as a glimpse of where they were hidden. Let them serve you well.  
>Enjoy your Yule<br>~Kain_

The last few pirates saw the way the Warrior plowed through his foes without so much as breaking a sweat - and knowing that rushing him mindlessly would do them no good, they waited at ten paces away. The Warrior drew his shield from his back - a battle plate bearing a polished edge so as to forge near-perfect reflections - and threw it at one of the pirates before he could react. The blow stunned his target whilst he leapt forward, striking him down as he had the others - not fatally, but firmly. The other two rushed at his back, trying to attack him whilst he was distracted; but the shield still lay at his feet, and he kicked it back to trip one foe at the ankle, lashed out at the other before he could evade, and then set his sabaton upon the sword arm of the winded one, preventing his strike from reaching.

_I'm sorry for the ruthlessness with which I shared the path you were at risk of following. As an apology, take this shield. Its surface is nigh impenetrable, and its build as solid as any blade - it will strain no fibre of this plate to aid your strikes.  
>Yuletide greetings<br>~Terra_

Bikke had an expression of horror as the Warrior glared towards him.

"Your crew has fallen," he observed. "You've not the courage to face me yourself. I know this."

The captain stepped back, drawing his hat off his head.

"Leave this place," the knight told him. "And do not let me see you until you have straightened your ways. If I hear again that your piracy has wronged this world, I will sink your ship in the flames of discord."

There was panic clear on Bikke's face as he rushed out of town, for fear of his life.

The Warrior sighed, lifting his foot from the pirate and stepping away from the fallen crew. His sword was sheathed upon his back, and his shield hooked upon it, as the townspeople stepped forward. One woman, the leader of the town, arrived directly before him, and for a brief moment the Warrior expected a rebuttal, an accusation that he had not been there to stop the damage from ever happening.

Instead, she only raised her hand skyward.

"Hail, the Warrior of Light shines!"

And all the people of Onrac followed suit.

"Hail, the Warrior of Light shines!"

The Warrior bowed his head in thanks at their words; then a gaze upon his back caught him, and he turned towards the entrance of the town, where four figures waited.

Flash.

Horror.

Dragoon.

Phantasm.

The four of them waited until his gaze was met; then they nodded approvingly, the faintest of smiles adorning their faces, and turned as their images vanished from this world.

That was all the confirmation he needed - his course was changed, and he would not meet the end that struck terror into his heart.

* * *

><p>Draco: Finished writing November 22nd of 2014. It was sheer fortune that all four of them had stuff with the same name as equipment from I. That is my endgame no-Soul Warrior setup in I, minus a Healing Helm, with Giant's Gloves instead of a Protect Ring. I never actually get around to running the Soul of Chaos. I was always content with the main game as it stood.<p> 


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